THAT Case
by enigma939
Summary: Hastings asks Poirot about the murder on the Orient Express and can't but help notice that something about that particular case deeply disturbs his old friend. SPOILERS for Murder on the Orient Express, naturally.


**THAT Case**

**A/N: **I was just watching the 2010 version of _Murder on the Orient Express _again...and seeing Poirot grapple with his conscience in the end made me wonder about the long-term impact of his actions in the end on his psyche, and whether he would ever tell anyone else about the truth. This story is from the POV of Captain Hastings.

It had been well over a year since I'd last met my dead old friend, the finest detective in Europe, if not the entire world, Hercule Poirot. Upon arriving in London and meeting him at the airport, I could not but help feel both pleased and a tad envious at Poirot's apparent agelessness.

Over twenty years since that first investigation at Styles Court, and yet, the Belgian genius seemed not to have aged even a day! Nothing about Poirot had changed over the years, except for his reputation, which ceaselessly increased itself to greater eminence with each passing day...The most ingenious of crimes, the most insidious of plots, the most cunning of murders..._none _could withstand the power of his little grey cells.

We spent a few pleasant hours in his flat at Whitehaven Mansions, talking about the cases he had been involved in recently, and about our old friends, Chief Inspector Japp and Miss Lemon. It was close to dusk, after God alone knows how many glasses of my coffee and his tisanes, that I asked him about the one case which I had been frankly bursting to talk with him about ever since I'd read about it in the papers.

"I say, Poirot", I began. "I read about that murder case on the Orient Express. And you wrapped up the entire affair in less than a day! Jolly good show, even by _your _high standards!" I said, in a congratulatory tone.

At that moment, I sensed a nearly imperceptible tension in the atmosphere. The mention of the words 'Orient Express' had wiped the pleasant smile of Poirot's face and left his countenance blank. His eyes seemed to have adopted a somewhat...mournful...look. And his hands holding his cup, which he had lifted towards his mouth, had frozen in mid-air.

For a second or two, I was stunned by this reaction. Poirot too seemed to have realised that his behaviour was decidedly strange. He drank his tea and the semblance of a normal expression had returned to his face.

"Poirot, are you alright?" I asked, concerned, wondering if I'd touched a wrong nerve with my question. Though I could not see how the mere mention of a recent well-publicised case which he had successfully solved could have provoked so extreme a reaction.

"I am fine, Hastings", he replied, mustering a smile.

"It was...the Italian Mafia, wasn't it?" I proceeded cautiously. "Something to do with the Mafia...that's what I read in the papers".

"_Qui_", Poirot replied. "The victim was a former member of the Mafia...Lafrango Cassetti alias 'Samuel Ratchett'. The man responsible for the murder of Daisy Armstrong".

"Yes...I remember the Armstrong case", I replied. I remembered vividly reading about it at my club years ago, and discussing it with some old military friends. I remembered also one of them commenting about how the perpetrators of so foul an atrocity could scarcely have escaped justice had the crime been committed in good old England. "Shocking...that was. No one can claim that the man Cassetti did not deserve to die. Though I personally would have preferred if he'd been tried and hanged the civilized way".

The ghost of a smile flickered across Poirot's face. When I cast an inquiring glance towards him, he said, "A man on that train...an English colonel...had made a similar comment, when I interviewed him during the investigation".

"Well, he was damn right", I replied, and then sighed. "I suppose though, that in a way, perhaps it _was _fitting for Cassetti to have died at the hands of another common murderer like himself. Poetic justice, you know".

Poirot remained silent for a few moments. I fancied that he was grappling with himself, trying to decide whether or not to say something that was on his mind. Finally...

"Oh justice was done that night on the train my friend". He then added, slowly and hesitantly, "But not the kind of justice you or I would have liked".

"Well, yes", I replied, still failing to comprehend his sudden bout of brooding. It was evident that there was something about this case which had disturbed him deeply. Was it the connection to the Armstrong case? I wondered if the knowledge that he was duty-bound to hunt down the killer of so vile a man as Cassetti, despite his finer feelings, may have been the cause for his trauma. "But had you been able to identify the culprit...would you have found it within yourself to have him delivered to the authorities?"

If my previous questions hadn't touched a raw nerve, then this one most certainly did. A troubled expression sprang to Poirot's mind. It was neither an expression of fear, nor that of anger but rather one of...guilt. Uncertainty and guilt...

And in that moment, I could not but help wonder...

"Poirot", I began hesitantly, unsure of how to ask the question which was now burning through my brain even as I conceived of it. "You didn't...I mean...did you..._know_...who", I took a deep breath, "...it was?"

There was silence for a few more minutes. It felt like hours. Like years, almost.

Once or twice Poirot opened his mouth to speak but he closed it again, as though completely uncertain of what he wished to say. I had often seen him staying silent for hours on end...but this was the first time I knew it wasn't part of some meditative process of reflection that would enable him to solve a complex case.

After an age, he spoke, slowly and mournfully, "When you've been denied justice, you feel incomplete". He looked straight into my eyes. "That's what the...the _perpetrator_...told me. It made my decision...easier". Another long pause and then, "Almost".

And now I realised the truth. One of those people, one of those passengers aboard the Calais Coach, had killed Cassetti. Had stealthily entered the compartment of the vile Mafioso and feverishly stabbed him to death in a moment of vengeance. Someone who felt strongly and overwhelmingly that justice had been denied in the Armstrong case...

But _who_?

I looked quizzically at Poirot, but he had deduced the question which was racing through my mind. He slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, _mon ami_...but I cannot tell you", he said. "Justice has been done, whether we like it or not...and the living deserve to be free from infamy".

He then got up, and walked to his room. I sat silently for a few minutes, pondering the revelations of the last several minutes, while Poirot's valet George cleared away the table.

The mere idea that Poirot would let a murderer walk free seemed on the surface...utterly and completely impossible to me. True, in the past, he _had _allowed culprits to evade justice if he felt it would be for the betterment of everyone concerned. Countess Rossakoff in particular sprang to mind! But she had been a jewel thief...whereas the culprit aboard the Orient Express had been a _murderer_.

And yet, disquieting as the notion was, I could not but help bring myself to agree with Poirot that justice, however harsh, however brutal, however _barbaric _even, _had _been done in this case...whether we liked it or not!

Perhaps someday, in the distant future, Poirot would tell me who that bloody avenger was...till then, I would not burden him with memories of the hardest decision he had ever had to take in his career, possibly his entire life.


End file.
